


Eighteen Sixteen

by towardsmorning



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Reference to death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Prompt: Jack during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer">year without a summer</a>.)</i>
</p>
<p>In September he wanders along the frozen Thames, ice sturdy under his feet without any extra encouraging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> I've put off posting this for ages because I'm not 100% happy with it, but I think if I don't post it soon I never will, so why not. An anon at the fic meme asked for a piece about Jack during 1816, when large parts of the US and Europe (and I believe some parts of Asia?) basically had a year-long winter due to a volcanic eruption. I'm no historian (and writing about something which actually happened feels weird to say the least), but I've tried to keep things vaguely in check, and I do know a little bit about the timeline of what weather happened when and so on.
> 
> Oh, and I've not bothered trying to alter any speech patterns to match contemporary ones since, well, the film didn't!

Jack doesn't anticipate the way winter continues that year across so much of the world, and that's unsettling enough in and of itself. He doesn't normally have to think about that sort of thing, he just _knows_ , an instinct he's never been without. But this year January turns to February and then trickles onto March, April, May, and places he'd normally be leaving unattended are still thick with snow and frost he had nothing to do with.  
  
At first he's pretty pleased with the whole thing. Soon, though, children stop coming out to play in the snow and instead he watches them through doorways, always just outside to keep his chill a respectable distance. He watches all but the richest grow thinner and thinner and thinner. Even some of the rich follow suit next, cheeks turning hollow. The sky stays a clean milky white as the crops wither and die, slowly rotting into nothing while May turns to June and in America he watches snow falling to the ground, watches people shiver. The cold is always worse for people who don't have food and now it seems nobody has enough.  
  
The thing about winter is that it's a lot older than Jack. He embodies it, or parts of it at least, but it doesn't actually need him. He could no more call it off for a year than he could stop the sun setting. So that not-winter, he sits in snowdrifts and windowsills and parks and watches the world move by. It's not fun, not like this, and he grumbles about how this shouldn't be his _job_ like he's some guardian, but that's what it becomes. Work. Snowball fights are replaced by keeping a keener eye out for children than usual and he holds off on laying any frost down himself, no matter how bored he is. The weeks stretch on and sometimes he dashes off to places normally unaffected by his presence in July, August, just to let off some steam. He always remembers the ruined crops and starving children elsewhere and is accordingly careful, though.  
  
He's always careful anyway, he tells himself, it's not like he's turning... boring. Winter kills people every year but Jack knows that it kills fewer people than if he wasn't around to have any say in the matter. Freezing streets under people's feet and starting snowball fights is one thing, but Jack's never let it go further than that, and more than one child has been miraculously found half-frozen in the woods to make up for it. Winter kills, but it was killing long before Jack came around, and he tells himself that it's _not_ his fault, not at all, that there's nothing to be done but to wait and hope.  
  
In September he wanders along the frozen Thames, ice sturdy under his feet without any extra encouraging. It's dark out and he can see Sandman's first trails starting to make their way into bedrooms. Jack pauses to touch one wonderingly, sand shifting through his fingers, the most colour for miles around he's sure- and when he looks back up Sandy's right in front of him. The man looks serious, uncharacteristically so, and Jack wonders with a tight squeeze of panic in his stomach whether he's come to his own conclusions about this long winter. It had crossed his mind before. There's a certain reputation Jack has and normally he relishes it, but the idea of being blamed for all this makes him feel a little sick and if he's honest with himself he'd been laying low for that reason.  
  
Sure enough, he gets a floating snowflake and question mark for his trouble. Jack hesitates, then shakes his head, feeling his already weak grin slide off his face. "It's out of my hands, little man," he says, and almost winces at how serious his voice sounds; if nothing else he hopes it sounds sincere. It must because Sandy's face loosens and Jack can see sympathy there. Sandy pats his arm comfortingly and shrugs helplessly in turn. Jack tries to get the smile back onto his face. "Thanks, Sandy."  
  
Sandy's a guardian, Sandy's busy, so Jack waves him off as he flies back to work. Once he's alone again he starts back off down the Thames, feet scuffing the already-flithy ice as he walks. The night's still and he doesn't feel like flying, not tonight. After a few yards, he feels something twang in his chest like a string out of tune and he looks up sharply. There's someone out there, someone cold and alone and in need of help; he can tell, like how he can tell when the wind is on its way and when somewhere's due a frost.  
  
He has work to do.


End file.
